


Rewrite this Pain we Own

by hi_irashay



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (But like not too bad DON'T WORRY), Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Injury, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 08:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20579774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hi_irashay/pseuds/hi_irashay
Summary: It’s not going to be alright, and this is all his fault.  They’re targeting Bitty now, like they targeted him, his team, everything he touches.Jack sees Tater shift out of the corner of his eye, shooting him a worried look and swearing softly in Russian under his breath.  Jack feels the car jump forward, accelerating faster still.Breathe in, breathe out.





	Rewrite this Pain we Own

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kirenamuln](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirenamuln/gifts).

> For my sweet babboo, the sparkliest of all angels, the Queen of Angst. Love you forever, thanks for the prompts and even MORE thanks for your FRIENDSHIP <3.

An error message flashes across the TV, and Jack curses to himself. This shouldn’t be so hard to figure out, it’s far from his first time trying to set up the cast from his laptop. Tonight is Samwell’s first away game - Bitty’s first time captaining on the road - and Jack just… he’s already missing it by not being there in person. He doesn’t want to miss more.

He’d really considered going: Yale is only about a two hour drive and the Falcs had a homestand. But, the pressure of being Stanley Cup Champions seemed to be weighing on the team as they entered the season. Their first few games had felt shaky as they tried to relearn how to play with each other after a too-short summer. New rookies, new linemates, new plays, new expectations. 

And, you know, the fact that Jack had come out on center ice in the middle of it all, fucking with their dynamic and bringing impossibly heavy scrutiny down upon them all.

Whatever the reason (_ your fault) _ , they just weren’t clicking yet. They would get there ( _ you’d better _ ), Jack knew, but he only hoped their newly-rabid fanbase would allow them the time to do so ( _ they see right through you, your leadership is bullshit) _.

Jack shakes his head, an attempt to stop the tendrils of dark thoughts that were curling through his mind, and tries the cast again. He clicks the icon in the browser window, just like Bitty taught him, and looks hopefully towards the TV… still nothing. No change, the persistent “No input” message taunting him from the screen.

He’s pondering calling his cable provider and just straight-up adding ESPNU to his package when there’s a knock at the door. Grateful for the reprieve, Jack heads to the door and opens it to Tater’s smiling face and proffered 6-pack.

“Zimmboni! Why you have murder eyes so early in night? Little B game not even start yet,” Tater teases, placing the beer in Jack’s hands and clasping his shoulder as he moves past Jack into the apartment.

“I can’t get the damn cast to work right,” Jack replies, putting the beer into the fridge before trailing Tater to the living area. Jack watches as Tater flops on the sectional, reaches for the remote and pulls Jack’s laptop towards him on the coffee table.

Tater sighs, leaning forward and aiming the remote towards the receiver. “You worst with tech,” his voice is fond, one hand pressing buttons on the remote and the other motioning Jack closer. “Here, I show you.” Jack watches as Tater finds the TV menu and hits the arrow a few times to change the input, then clicks the icon on the laptop. He smiles expectantly at Jack as the pregame reporting blares to life on the TV screen, like a dog waiting for a treat.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the smartest, I know,” Jack grumbles, turning towards the kitchen to get them beers.

“Exactly!” Tater laughs at his back, delighted. “Is OK, though, you be smartest on ice and I be smartest off.” He sags into the cushions, propping his feet on the coffee table. “Beer time now. And snack? Any sweets from B?”

Jack cracks the tops off the beers, putting them on the counter so he can rummage through the cupboards for the tupperware of “HAPPY FIRST SEASON AS A STANLEY CUP CHAMP!” cookies Bitty had sent him last week. Tater makes a pleased sound at Jack’s return, making grabby hands at the tupperware. Jack settles on the sectional and turns the volume up to cover the sounds of Tater’s enthusiastic munching.

The puck drops, and the first period passes without much excitement. Yale and Samwell net a goal apiece and the gameplay is mostly clean. Bitty got an assist and a couple good looks on goal - he’s looking good this season, Jack is pleased to note. Solid, strong, _ captainly._

The second period begins with a vengeance, Yale coming out of intermission as if they have something to prove. Things get chippy pretty quickly, and… it might be Jack’s imagination, but they seem to be focusing a lot of their ire on Bitty? Whenever he’s on the ice, one of Yale’s fourth-liners always seems to find him. If it’s not the one goon, it’s a winger, or a d-man, or a combination. 

It’s hard to tell with the changing camera angles, but Jack swears he can see Bitty flinching away whenever the goon approaches, in particular. But he’s not roughing Bitty up, or even touching him at all? It looks like he’s running his mouth, though. On-ice chirping can turn vicious quickly, Jack knows, especially in a chippy game like this one. And after their stunt at the Cup final, he can only imagine the ammo an opponent might fling at Bitty (_ yeah, all your fault). _

“Huh,” Jack wonders aloud, as the same fourth-liner goon shoves at Bitty during his next shift. “They’re uh… they’re targeting him pretty hard, aren’t they?” Tater makes a considering noise on the couch beside him, shifting forward so his elbows are on his knees.

“Maybe so,” Tater hums, eyes tracking the players on the screen. “Yes, they on B like sharks, big boy especially… but why?”

Jack shrugs, sitting up straighter as he sees the Yale goon give Bitty another hard shove against the boards. It’s obvious, this time, and they aren’t the only ones who notice. Jack sighs as he sees a pair of Samwell gloves hit the ice - fighting is never his favorite part of hockey, but hopefully it can cut whatever tension has been building and let them get back to normal gameplay.

Tater, on the other hand, whistles appreciatively. “Time for punches now!” he exclaims, nudging Jack’s shoulder. “Little B better get out of the way though.” 

“Oh he will,” Jack reassures. “Bitty hates a fight…”

But Bitty is still crunched up against the boards, the goon ignoring the challenge by the Samwell player. Teammates on both sides are circling closer, closer as the challenging Wellie tries to pull the goon off of Bitty. After a tense few moments, more gloves hit the ice and an all-out line brawl breaks out. The crowd roars in delight, with the announcers shrieking to narrate over the cacophony.

For a terrifying moment Jack loses sight of Bitty in the fray, but then he sees him seemingly trying to shove his way out, to get to the outer edges of the brawl. He’s almost there when he loses his footing and goes down, hard, helmet and glove bouncing across the ice as he hits the ground. The knot of players covers him for a moment, until the fighting comes to an abrupt halt all at once and an eerie silence falls over the arena.

Players are frantically signaling for the refs, the coaches, trainers, _ anyone _ to come over. They untangle from one another, slowly skating backwards to form a loose circle around a slumped figure on the ground and a slash of red.

A slash of blood.

_ No. No no nonono. NO. _

Jack’s on his feet before his brain can finish processing the sight before him, pulse racing, fists clenching. 

_ Please, god, no. _

His body shakes, blood pounding in his ears and vision going fuzzy around the edges.

_ Bitty. _

Jack’s chest feels tight, painfully tight, and he’s gasping for breath.

“Zimmboni - Jack! Look at me!” Tater’s voice is almost a shout, and Jack is viscerally aware that he’d been trying to get his attention for some time. Jack sucks in a few more breaths, and brings his gaze up to meet Tater’s. “Good, good.” Tater soothes. “Breathe with me now - in… and out. Good! Keep going, watch me.”

They stand there in Jack’s living room, just breathing together. After a few cycles, Tater brings a tentative hand up to Jack’s shoulder, moving closer when Jack doesn’t flinch away. The game on the screen is going into second intermission, Jack notices, as Tater uses his other hand to click it off with the remote.

“He gonna be alright, Jack, they already take him to hospital.” Tater squeezes Jack’s shoulder. “The announcers say, I don’t think you hear. We go now, yes?”

Jack stares at him, blankly. 

“Yes, we go.” Tater decides, gently turning Jack towards the door. “I drive us, come.”

Tater ushers Jack out of his own apartment and down into the garage. As he buckles Jack into the passenger seat of his car, Jack takes stock of his body - chest still painfully tight, pulse still racing, hands still shaking, but breathing softer, slower. _ Focus on your breath. _

Tater punches something into the car’s GPS and gets them on their way. He looks worriedly over at Jack - “You still breathing, Zimmboni, yes?” Jack nods, resting his head against the car window.

“Good. You rest, I drive.” Tater pauses as he pulls up to a stoplight. “I text that smiley goalie, he say which hospital they take Little B.” Jack nods again, shifting his gaze. He counts the lights blurring past as dusk deepens.

_ Breathe in, breathe out. _

Tater prattles on mindlessly and Jack zones out. He clenches his fists, twisting his arms together to try to stop the shaking. Bitty. He’s going to Bitty. Tater’s taking him there, and it’s going to be alright.

_ Breathe in, breathe out. _

It’s not going to be alright, and this is all his fault. They’re targeting Bitty now, like they targeted him, his team, everything he touches. Jack clutches at his face, his hair, folding forward and succumbing to the shaking. His thoughts are racing too fast to make much sense, but the overwhelming sense of dread is loud and clear.

_ Breathe in, breathe out. _

Jack sees Tater shift out of the corner of his eye, shooting him a worried look and swearing softly in Russian under his breath. Jack feels the car jump forward, accelerating faster still.

_ Breathe in, breathe out. _

+++

The drive to New Haven takes far less time than it should have, Tater’s face unrepentant at Jack’s questioning glance. Tater parks them hastily and crookedly before ushering Jack inside towards the hospital reception. The woman at the desk must recognize them, unable to hide her surprised recognition before resolving back into calm professionalism. She points them down a hallway with a long line of plastic chairs, where much of the Samwell hockey team seems to already be assembled - red-faced and sweaty in their suits, as if they hadn’t bothered to shower after the game.

“Jack! Oh, thank god!” Chowder calls down the hall, scurrying to meet them as they approach. “Bitty is going to be OK, nothing is broken! The cut on his arm wasn’t as deep as they thought it was for that amount of blood, they stitched it up already. God, did you see the blood? There was so much of it, I can’t even believe it! He actually just woke up a bit ago, did you know? They’re doing their concussion testing now, maybe they’ll let us in to see him after? What do you-” 

“Smiley goalie!” Tater interjects smoothly, “Hello! Thank you for update, we sit now.” His hand is warm on Jack’s lower back as he steers him into one of the plastic chairs, plonking down next to him as a shield between him and the team. Chowder hovers nearby, anxious and uncertain.

Jack sighs. “Hey, Chowder, good to see you.” He scrubs a hand over his face, summoning up his “Captain Face” from the depths of his memory, before meeting Chowder head-on. “Do you… can you tell me, what happened out there?”

Chowder hesitates, turning towards one of the frog d-men Jack vaguely remembers meeting this summer during the Cup celebration.

“Samson, on Yale, he was…” the frog coughs, uncomfortable. “Well, he was being a homophobic dick, to be frank.” He averts his gaze, unwilling to meet Jack’s eye. “Saying all this shit about Bitty, and, uh, about you.” His cheeks are blazing as he shuffles backward a step, and Jack lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

“It was the WORST, Jack! I’m sorry we didn’t realize it sooner and put a stop to it before it blew up,” Chowder’s voice is plaintive. “God, poor Bitty, he always has our backs and then we just…” Chowder trails off, looking crestfallen. “I’m sorry, I really am. WE’RE sorry.”

Jack feels frozen in his seat, extremities tingling as he takes in their words. _ It’s finally happened, then. You’ve finally dragged someone else down with you. _ He hunches forward, burying his face in his hands and reminding himself to keep breathing.

“Is OK,” Tater responds for him, bringing a hand to run soothing circles across Jack’s upper back. “What happen to dick from Yale?”

“Oh he got thrown out - targeting, with a game misconduct,” the frog said. “It didn’t take us long to clarify to the refs what had happened once they got Bits off the ice.”

“Good,” Tater rumbles, darkly, hand never stopping in it’s calming circle between Jack’s shoulder blades. Jack doesn’t feel reassured - justice hadn’t really been served, the real culprit (_ your fault your fault your fault) _was still at large. 

The frog and Chowder drift back towards their teammates, the latter with a final anxious look at Jack. He drops his hands between his knees and lets his head fall forward, slumping further into the uncomfortable plastic chair.

“It’s all because of me, Tater,” Jack whispers, looking at his shoes. “I did this to him.”

Tater makes a wounded sound, leaning into Jack and moving his arm to wrap around Jack’s shoulders. “No, no no, is not-”

“But it’s true!” Jack interrupts. “If we hadn’t kissed, if the media hadn’t been relentless, if… if I weren’t _ me, _Tater. None of this would have happened to him.” Jack’s body begins to tremble again, nerves shot and thoughts spiraling. Tater makes a shushing sound and squeezes him tighter.

“I have to break up with him. Publicly.” Jack feels steely in his resolve. “This can’t ever happen again, they need to know to leave him alone, I-”

“No, stop, you listen to me now.” Tater uses his grip across Jack’s upper body to shake him gently. “That would be worst thing for you, for B. Don’t even think.” He pauses, considering his next words. “Some people just bad. Nothing to do for it, not even the Great Jack Zimmermann can fix.”

Jack clenches his jaw, eyebrows furrowing… but he knows Tater’s right. It was a bad moment, a knee-jerk reaction. He knows better than to give into his anxiety like that. And yet... _ and yet. _

The door to Bitty’s room opens and several people emerge - a doctor, a nurse, and Coach - causing a ripple of motion up and down the hallway. Jack leaps to his feet, dislodging Tater’s arm, and moves closer. Coach raises his hands to stay the wave of questions, motioning instead to the doctor.

“Hello, I know you all are very worried about your teammate here.” The doctor’s voice is kind, but firm and authoritative. “Eric gave us permission to update you all. Our protocol indicated that he does indeed have a concussion, in addition to the laceration on his left arm that we stitched up. But, aside from these, he is stable.”

The team releases a collective breath, though they all know that a concussion is no minor injury. Bitty will have a long, uncertain road ahead of him as he recovers, and might lose the whole season. If not more.

“Eric is sleeping now, but you are otherwise welcome to begin visiting him.” The doctor looks at them all again, allowing a small smile, before striding down the hall to his next patient.

The doctor had barely entered the next exam room before Jack pushes forward and into Bitty’s room. He ignores the clamoring of the Samwell team as he shuts the door behind him, hearing Tater’s placating voice over the fray and knowing Tater will handle it. Tater is good at handling people, unlike Jack. Worthless, useless, unworthy Jack, who can barely handle himself. 

_ No, not now, Bitty needs you. _

Jack spots a chair on the other side of the room by the window, and he pulls it towards the bed as quietly as possible. He hasn’t been able to make himself look at Bitty just yet, but once he’s settled at his bedside, he can no longer avoid it. Bitty looks … shockingly normal except for the various wires attached to his head and chest. A soft-looking swath of gauze is wrapped around Bitty’s left forearm where the blade had sliced in, presumably protecting his stitches. The machines are beeping in a rhythm that is half soothing, half taunting.

Jack hates hospitals, has ever since his overdose. Only fitting that the first time he ends up in one is for his own boyfriend. _ What a fucking fairytale _.

He studies the lines of Bitty’s face, soft and open as he sleeps. He thinks of Tater’s words, pits them against the dark ones swirling through his mind. He can’t decide what is right, which to attend to, what to believe. So instead, he breathes.

He breathes, and reaches for Bitty’s hand.

He breathes, and bends forward so his forehead is on the bed by Bitty’s hip.

He breathes, and closes his eyes.

+++

Jack awakens an indeterminate amount of time later to the feeling of a hand in his hair, softly stroking, and the first rays of sun peeking through the hospital window. The hand falls from his head as he lifts it from the blankets, turning to meet Bitty’s curious stare.

“Honey, what-” Bitty pauses, voice gritty and hoarse, making a face. Jack’s eyes dart around the room before they settle on a pitcher of water, and he leaps up to pour a cup for Bitty. Bitty accepts the cup and chugs it down, before trying again.

“Not that it’s not wonderful to see you, but, what are you doing here? Don’t you have a practice to be getting to?” Bitty places the cup on the bedside table and reaches for Jack with his good arm, wires swaying.

“You’re more important,” Jack responds without hesitation, tangling his fingers with Bitty’s and sitting down once more.

Bitty’s eyes soften, and he smiles. “Well that’s no way for a professional athlete to talk, now, is it?” The corner of his mouth quirks up into a small smile that Jack can’t help but match.

“How are you feeling, Bits?” Jack asks, almost afraid of the answer. 

Bitty wrinkles his nose and brings his other hand up to his temple, wincing slightly. “M’head hurts, arm’s not too bad. But, I think they have me on the good stuff.” He gestures vaguely at the IV bag hanging to his left, before dropping his arm back onto the blankets. “Glad you’re here, though.” He pauses, considering, as his gaze sharpens. “How are YOU, Jack? You look like you’ve been through the wringer!”

Jack exhales, eyes focusing somewhere above Bitty’s head. “I’m fine, just tired.” He lowers his gaze to meet Bitty’s. “Tired, and really, really worried about you.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Bitty squeezes Jack’s hand. “That must have been so scary to see, lord. I’m gonna have nightmares about it for months. The THINGS coming out of that boy’s mouth? Gosh, I hope he doesn’t kiss his mama with those lips. I can’t believe after all that, though, it was my own damn fault for tripping, I just lost an edge trying to escape and…”

Jack zones out again, watching Bitty’s mouth and half-listening to his chatter. Bitty squeezes his hand again as he talks for emphasis on something, gesturing with the other as wildly as possible while connected to an IV and monitoring machines. Bitty is just being so _ Bitty _ right now that Jack can’t help but finally feel reassured - Bitty’s going to get through this. And Jack is going to get through this.

  
_ They’re _ going to get through this. Together

**Author's Note:**

> In another lifetime there was a plotline about Jack being asked to write a Player’s Tribune article and him not knowing what to write, but then after all this he knew EXACTLY WHAT TO WRITE and then there would be an article… but, sometimes there are dreams that cannot be + storms we cannot weather :-P.
> 
> Also guys - writing Tater is so much fun?????
> 
> Title (and honestly INSPO) from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GCsyXSr7u-Q


End file.
